


Christmas in Brussels

by vifetoile



Series: Yuletide Extravaganza [1]
Category: Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?, Where's Waldo - Martin Handford
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Complete, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Romance, Look every time I get a beta reader it costs cartoon network 42 bucks, Not Beta Read, very little kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22014103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vifetoile/pseuds/vifetoile
Summary: Christmas Eve in Brussels, and Carmen Sandiego runs into an old friend. Fluffy and sweet. A one-shot.
Relationships: Carmen Sandiego/Waldo
Series: Yuletide Extravaganza [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584574
Kudos: 12





	Christmas in Brussels

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, happy holidays! Second of all, although I grew up reading Where's Waldo, his original name is Wally in England, so I made him Wally, a Londoner. Third of all, I have been to Brussels, but that was many moons past, and my memories may be a little foggy. Forgive my errors. Fourth of all, I don't own Carmen Sandiego OR Wally, I'm just having fun with what is possibly the silliest ship in all creation. Finally... Thank you for reading!

It was Christmas Eve in Brussels, Belgium. The town hall building looked like a marzipan creation, all delicate frills and pale stone. In the square below, the Christmas Market was in full swing. The smells of hot mulled wine and cocoa filled the air. Gingerbread shaped into hearts offered messages of love and cheer. Lights were strung from every stall. Ah, a wonderful place to observe the simple pleasures of the holiday season! 

Carmen Sandiego thought that simple pleasures were well and good, in their place, but she thought Christmas was a time to be a little more indulgent. Brandies, rich with the savor of years, chocolate truffles hand-crafted by Venezuealan nuns, ropes and ropes of pearls to wear under a cozy sweater… that was more her style. And of course, some fun parlor games. Like, say, hide-and-seek. 

She hid a smile under her upturned collar, thinking of her mark, the Museum of Musical Instruments, which had but two hours before she robbed them silly, and  _ that  _ was a heartwarming thought--

“ _ There  _ you are!” 

Carmen Sandiego stopped. She knew that voice, and more, she knew those words. She turned, and there he was, standing by a hot cocoa and gingerbread stand. The striped red-and-white jumper, the backpack that practically screamed “Tourist,” the camera dangling perilously close to his paper cup of hot cocoa-- and that kind smile. 

“Wally,” Carmen said, and couldn’t help herself smiling. She crossed to him and they exchanged the French handshake: shake hands, kissy-cheeks. “Merry Christmas.” 

“Happy Christmas to you, too,” he said. “Isn’t Brussels wonderful this time of year? Have some cocoa, please! My treat.” 

Carmen protested, exacted a promise that she’d cover their next meal, and then agreed. As Waldo cheerily ordered a second drink, she took a moment to regard him. His sunburn from the past summer had faded, and he’d replaced the old strap for his camera. The same shoes as last time. 

Wally was an odd duck, to be sure. He just as ill-suited to grounded normalcy as she was, but in a different way. There was a wanderlust in him so strong that it threw off every other internal compass. It scattered his brain, so he was forever losing any trinkets that weren’t literally strapped to him. And he had an incorrigible fondness for danger, namely her. 

Yet for all that, some things about him were pleasantly predictable. 

No matter where they met, no matter how long it had been since they’d parted, if Waldo spotted Carmen first, he always hailed her saying “ _ There  _ you are!” as if he’d been expecting her to be around, somewhere, and now he’d found her, and what fun they’d have now! 

It was ludicrous, of course, but that was Wally for you. 

“ _Et voila, le_ _chocolat chaud_ ,” he said, handing her the drink. His French, like practically every language he spoke (including English), had a strong smack of London. But he had good manners and friendliness, which could win goodwill with even the pickiest of Europeans. 

“Cheers,” she said, holding up her paper cup. “Thanks again.” 

“Cheers!” They bopped cups together, and drank.

Tall tables were set up throughout the Christmas Market for shoppers to stand, lean against, and enjoy their snacks and drinks. Wally offered his arm to Carmen, and so they ambled to the tables. For a while, they contentedly watched the crowds together. 

That was another weird thing about Wally. He genuinely  _ liked  _ people. He could make friends wherever he went. Benefit of the doubt? He gave it. Meandering stories from strangers? He loved ‘em. The world was full of friends he hadn’t met yet. He liked to meet people and talk to them, and he  _ wasn’t  _ completely disgusted by humanity. Needless to say, Carmen Sandiego found that truly baffling.

She turned to look at him. The lights strung between booths gave off a highly flattering glow. Even with its help, he wasn’t quite heart-stoppingly handsome. His features were unbalanced on his long face. His skin looked chapped from the wind, and his hair desperately needed a clip. He had a five o’clock shadow, and smile lines traced around his mouth. That mouth drew Carmen’s attention now. She’d rather like to smooch him. 

She might have, right then, except that Wally spoke. “Got any evening plans?” he said. 

“Well, there’s a certain museum-- the Museum of Musical Instruments, I think you know it. They’re having a chamber music recital, some old-world Christmas carols. I thought I might take in the culture. And you?” 

“I’ve called on some old chums in town… hey, talk about local culture, I found the loveliest little hole-in-the-wall church, and I’m going to attend Midnight Mass.” 

“You’re a believer?” 

“Well, it’s Christmas Eve. When in Brussels…” he smiled at her. Dammit. It wasn’t fair how his smile could work on her like that. “Besides, I think there’ll be a local choir.” 

She leaned closer to him. She could smell his lemon soap, and a bit of shea butter, and his hair. “Wally, do you… oh, this is a silly question…” 

“Go on?” He leaned closer to her. 

She delicately took his scarf in her fingertips and toyed with it. “You don’t happen to play any musical instruments, do you?” She looked up at him through her lashes. 

“We-e-ell,” he began, as his grin widened, “my mom put me through piano lessons when I was a little tot. I was never great shakes at piano, but I’m quite good on a guitar.” 

“Guitar, you say?” 

“Oh yes. It comes in handy. I can make music wherever I go.” 

“Ah, then you’ve got me beat,” she admitted. “I can’t handle anything more complex than a tambourine.” She kissed the end of his scarf and let it go. 

“You? I’ve seen you work locks and mechanisms the likes of which… wait.” His mouth tucked down into a suspicious frown. “Carmen.” 

“Yes?” 

“I don’t want you robbing the Museum of some priceless kittern or, or banjo for some misguided Christmas present.” 

“Aw, Wally…”

“I mean it.” He was cute when he was indignant.

“It’ll be fun.” She gave him a nudge. “If those instruments could talk, do you think they’d want to be locked up behind glass, never played, never loved?”

He frowned, and scowled down at the table. Carmen was intrigued. It was very difficult to make Wally cross, but maybe, just maybe, she’d done it.

“Did I ever tell you about my parents?” he asked.

“What?” She blinked at him. Maybe she’d misread the entire situation. “I don’t think so. Do you want me to meet them?”

“Hmm. What do you think my parents are like?” Now he gave her a quizzical stare, with a hint of crossness lurking in his eyebrows. 

“Your parents… well, I can extrapolate from looking at you. You’re courteous and warm, and curious, and resourceful, but scatterbrained. It could be that your parents were ill-mannered snobs with no sense of responsibility or adventure, and you were hellbent to make yourself the opposite from them. However, I know you send cards and parcels to your folks back home, so you must like them a bit. You mention Trafalgar Square a lot, and that’s a posh area. And whenever you find a good mystery novel, you also post  _ that  _ home to England, so someone there must like mysteries.”

“You extrapolate about me in your spare time?” Wally looked mighty pleased.

“Some topics interest me,” Carmen purred. In a non-purr voice, she said, “I assume your parents are friendly people like yourself, that they like to read books, and they’re not inclined to travel, but they’re very well-off.” 

Wally almost spat out his hot chocolate. “Blimey, you’re off the mark.” 

“What? Was I wrong about Trafalgar Square?”

“No, no, no. My family has never been well-off. Generations and generations of Walkers, Cartwrights, Pilgrims, Cohens, Kaufmanns, Trotts, et cetera et cetera, we’re all working class. Respectable, yes, but workers. My mum and dad have worked in the National Gallery of Art since before they were married. Custodians. They’re finally retired, and they give museum tours now. They don’t ask for much, my parents. They just love the art.”

“I didn’t know,” Carmen said, ashamed. It was as close as she would get to giving an apology.

And Wally understood. “Well, you’re an American. If you were British, you’d know I was working-class the minute I opened my mouth. All this is to say, Carmen--I don’t want the poor custodians, or docents, or security guards at the Museum to suffer on account of your mischief. Music would be lovely on Christmas Eve. But this is my condition--” he held up a finger, suddenly inspired-- “my  _ challenge  _ to you. Whisk away whatever instruments catch your fancy, but don’t ruin Christmas for whoever is mopping the floors. Deal?” 

Carmen Sandiego took the glove off of her right hand, and held her hand out. Wally shook her hand vigorously. 

“Wally, may I ask another question?” Carmen asked, pulling her glove back on (it was fine Florentine leather, designed for motorcycle riders, and liberated from a certain tyrannical duchess). 

“You’ve already asked one.” She mock-scowled at him. “Go ahead, Carmen dear.” 

“How many siblings do you have?” 

Wally smiled into his now-empty paper cup. “I’m the middle of five.” 

“ _ Five! _ ” 

He nodded. “Theodore, Ursula, Walter, Xavier, and Zed. Zed just got engaged, in fact-- I’ll be home for the wedding in June. I mean, God willing.” 

Carmen made a mental note: Look for Wally in May, bring him to London in time for June. Wally could get terribly lost, and he might need a hand. 

“Speaking of which, I’m expected at a dinner party, given by one of Teddy’s schoolfriends. Care to join me?” 

She shook her head. “Got plans of my own.” 

Wally checked his cell phone and swore in British. “I’m late. Better get going. Carmen--” 

“Yes?” 

“My challenge stands.” 

She nodded to him, and he tugged his forelock to her. Then he smiled, shouldered his backpack, and strolled into the crowd. Amazing how a tall fella in a striped jumper could melt away like that. Carmen watched the patch where he’d vanished for a spell. Then she left the table and the Christmas market, going in quite the opposite direction from his.

Several hours later, Wally stepped out of Saint Gabriel’s church. The air filled with the sound of carols fading away, and neighbors wishing one another Frohliche Weihnachten! And Joyeux Noel! Midnight Mass was ended; it was officially Christmas. 

Wally took a moment out on the steps to breathe in the joyful moment. Peace on Earth, and goodwill to all. 

Father Christmas even stood at the bottom of the stairs, loudly wishing Merry Christmas to all and tossing wrapped candies to children. When a family with three children stopped nearby, the jolly old elf took out his sack and drew from it a beautiful guitar. With almost magical grace, the elf strummed out a merry “Wassailing” song and winked at the children, before holding out a battered hat for some coins.

The families cheered, gave some money, and gradually dispersed, all eager to be home in their snug, warm beds. Wally ambled towards the fat man in the red coat.

“Happy Christmas to you, Saint Nick,” Wally said. 

“Ho ho ho! Thank you! I bet  _ you’re  _ on the nice list.” The saint strummed a few chords.

Wally shrugged. “I do my best.” 

“Is there anything you wish for?” The saint’s gaze had suddenly become quite keen as he regarded Wally. 

“Well, I recently connected again with an old friend… I’d love to see her again before the twelve days of Christmas are over.” 

Another chortle. “For a nice boy like you, I’m sure that can be arranged.” Father Christmas appeared to list to the right, and turn, and before you could say “Bob’s your uncle,” the red figure had executed a neat little spin, and the beard and fake eyebrows were whisked away. Carmen Sandiego gave a little curtsy to Wally, who bowed. 

“Wonderful style, as usual,” Wally pointed out. 

“This? This is practice,” Carmen said. “Now, the challenge has been met, and I will tell you how you can follow up, to see for yourself. And for the soul on my  _ own  _ personal nice list…” 

She held out the guitar that she’d been playing earlier. At a better angle, Wally saw that it was in fact an elegant mandolin, harmonious in proportion, carved with exquisite care. He took it with reverence. He turned it over. At the base of its neck, a little silver nightingale caught his eye.

“This isn’t from the Philomel Workshop, is it?” he asked.

“Of course it is. From the year 1744, one of only forty-nine stringed instruments of that workshop. And Wally, it wants to be played. It wants to see the world.” 

Wally looked up at her. For a moment, that was all the conversation they needed, to look into each other’s eyes. Humor, appreciation, gratitude, a bit of wistfulness. It was all there.

“How--”

“I met your challenge.” 

“You said so already, and I believe you,” Wally said, “I just want to know how you made it look like you played so expertly before.” 

Carmen spread her gloved hands wide. “A magician never reveals all her secrets.”

Wally kept his suspicions to himself.

“Do you wanna get something to eat?” he asked.

“I’m starving, yes.” 

He crossed to her. His free hand caught her wrist in a gentle hold. He saw how she grinned, how her eyes lit up. When he kissed her, she met and returned it. They broke apart. 

“Merry Christmas, Wally,” she said. 

“Happy Christmas, Carmen. Let’s get something to eat.” 


End file.
